Now, publishers are a private entity and have every right to publish the books they want to publish. What I object to is lumping homosexuals in with child molesters, people who have sex with animals, rapists, and others who engage in "depraved or illegal acts".

That's just bad manners. And it's wholesale categorizing like this that makes it difficult for gay people to get the equality they deserve. So, while I am not advocating Wild Rose Press begin accepting GLBT submissions, I am encouraging them to modify their guidelines to remove the implication that gay people belong in the same category as the lowest members of society. Perhaps they could simply state that they want romance stories that involve heterosexual couples and that do not include adultery, rape, beastiality, or pedophilia. That way, they don't even have to bring "us" up at all.

Nix Winter, a writer of just the kind of stories that Wild Rose Press, would shun, said it better than I ever could:

I looked at their guidelines... they don't want homosexual stories, so
pretty much everything I write is a poor fit for them.

I'm gender queer, sexually queer, probably queer in other ways...

and so are my characters.

I really just hate... it totally gets under my skin when guidelines are like

No Rape
No Bestiality
No Pedophilia
No Homosexuality

That's like...

No Murder
No Plague
No Human Sacrifice
No Freckles

It's not like they could take their ignorant selves and be like

No Blacks
No Retards
No Chinks
No Fags

That would obviously be wrong... offensive, but other wise 'nice' little
people feel it perfectly fine to lump who I am in with rapists, pedophiles
and dog humpers.

BLAH.

I had to applaud Nix, who voiced my own thoughts better than I ever could.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Oh dear, my editor at MLR Press was kind enough to slip me the comments of the proofreader for one of my next books, Tales from the Sexual Underground (coming out in March; it's a collection of my gay erotic fiction/non-fiction). The comments, by a ruffian known as Mr. Nowell Briscoe, ruffled my feathers.

I share them with you below. And here I was hoping he would be touched by the heart warming content of the book. I was disappointed yet again.

"Lordy me..... Never in my life have I read such as was contained in this offering! And I considered myself somewhat proficient in the art of the gay world.....WRONG!!! Compared to the deranged Mr. Reed, I am just a novice, a babe in the woods. But after reading this, it is almost enough to make me run back into the closet and SLAM the door and lock it! Mercy, mercy.....mercy!

I found no errors or goof-ups in this so you may proceed. Now I will go back to my tame-by-comparison books for comfort and solace and try to put much of what I read out of my mind. I now see what you meant by increasing your knowledge of men's penises!

I am in hopes that Victor's story is up to his usual standards cause Lordy me, I need something calm and reassuring.......

Your worn to a nub and beyond that proofer....."

Tales can be bought here. I guess it should have carried a warning for those equipped with delicate sensibilities.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Friday, February 26, 2010

This post begins a new series of writers talking about writing...and why they feel compelled to do what they do. This week, mystery author Bill Kirton tells us what compels him.

Why I Write

By Bill Kirton

I write because I can. I love words, what they do, how they sound, how they fit together. I find their rhythms comforting. They’re the only way to make sense of the world. OK, we can enjoy beautiful things, intense experiences in the abstract, but if we ever want to share them, words are the only way there is of doing so. I consider myself lucky to have received, in my genetic make-up, an ability with words. That’s not a boast. In fact, I always quote something an artist friend of mine once said. We sometimes sat at meetings together and, instead of doodling, he’d draw wonderful pencil sketches of the people round the table. One day, I looked at one and said ‘Vic, I don’t know how you can do that.’ His reply was ‘Bill, I don’t know how you can’t.’ It’s such a simple way of saying that having a specific talent isn’t a cause for self-congratulation; it’s something that comes as naturally as breathing. And we’re lucky to have been dealt such a hand.

There’s also the fact that writing (even the boring stuff, the stuff that earns the money) keeps on being challenging. For example, a while back, I was commissioned to write a promotional DVD by a client for his product (which we’ll call Acmeclad). I asked him to send me its details. The reply I got (and I promise you this is absolutely verbatim) was ‘Acmeclad is of a monocoque construction comprising a polymeric textile reinforcement encapsulated within a neoprene outer layer complete with integral neoprene strakes, bonded to a polypropylene penetration-resistant felt impregnated with a corrosion inhibitor or biocide contained within a water resistant thixotropic gel as dictated by the application for which the system will be supplied.’ Turning that into an 8 minute DVD was a satisfying triumph of order over chaos.

It hurts as a writer to wander through a world where highly paid civil servants produce ‘explanations’ such as ‘In times of trend productivity growth, it is very difficult to detect changes in a trend, because productivity is a volatile variable, reflected in the cyclical position’. Life is already confusing enough without the guardians of our social structures turning them into impenetrable mazes. And we writers are the ones with the tools to counteract this. We can build realities more persuasive than the daily one we all live in. The thought of a total stranger somewhere on a different continent opening the pages of one of my books and recreating the reality of my fiction for him or herself is magical.

I just love writing and, as I said, I feel privileged to be able to do it.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

(Note: The following blog appeared originally on "In Cold Blog" a true-crime blog for which I am a regular monthly contributor).

This post was published originally You hear a lot these days about hate crimes against GLBT people. What you don’t hear about so much is hate crimes perpetrated by someone who is dead.

Let me qualify that. This is not a story about an actual crime that could be prosecuted. It’s more a story about a hateful act made against a gay man thirteen years ago that is only now slapping that man in the face. Hard.

A little background first. This is a true story about a good friend of mine. For the purposes of this story, we’ll call him John. John recently attended the funeral of his stepmother. Funerals are always sad occasions, but this one wasn’t overly sad for John because his stepmother had married his father late in life and the two had never been particularly close.

But when John’s stepmother passed away at a ripe old age after a long illness, John knew that he and his siblings stood to inherit some money. His father, who had passed away six years before had left all of his assets to his wife, with the understanding that when she passed away, the remaining money, property, and real estate were to be divided equally among the children (both his and hers).

The reading of the will is where this story gets interesting…and takes its slap-in-the-face turn.

John and his siblings and stepsiblings inherited a nice chunk of change.

But John’s amount was less than everyone else’s. $13,000 less.

Why? Because thirteen years ago, John came out to his father. The coming out was a watershed moment coming after years of struggle (and a marriage to a woman and two children). But John, like many gay men who marry and hide in the closet, could no longer live a lie.

John’s father didn’t see it that way. He saw it as a choice, a choice that was morally unsound and that would surely send his own son straight to hell. Never mind that John was an upstanding member of his community, a devout Christian, a caring and loving father (both before and after his divorce), and a loyal and compassionate friend to all who knew him. Because he accepted himself for who he was, John’s father wouldn’t accept his own son any longer.

One might think that the old man would have carried his hate with him to the grave. And one would suppose that hatred would have no way of harming our John long after the old man was buried.

But the old man, besides being “conservative” (as we say these days) in his views toward homosexuality, was crafty. He put a stipulation in his will that John was to be penalized $1,000 for every year he continued to live his “debauched lifestyle.”

You can do the math. John has been out for thirteen years. John’s inheritance was $13,000 less than his siblings. He had no idea this was coming and he described its effect as I did: a slap in the face. The hateful act by his father pained him deeply…more than the money lost, so much more, was the fact that his father went to his grave not only never accepting his son, but intent on hurting him, even after he was gone.

In the figurative sense, I would call this a hate crime.

The kicker? John’s brother is also gay, but since he came out after their father died, he was not penalized.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Friday, February 19, 2010

The Blue Moon Cafe will make its debut March 7! I'm really excited about this book for several reasons:

1. It's my first werewolf novel. For 20 years, I have been writing horror, or some variation thereof, but have yet to explore this territory.

2. It's a horror story combined with a romance. More and more, my stories are taking on a romantic edge. I think that The Blue Moon Cafe combines the paranormal and romance in a way that will satisfy readers of both genres.

3. It's my first full-length novel set in my relatively new hometown of Seattle. Seattle is a great location for a werewolf book, especially a gay one...it's got a huge gay population, tremendous natural beauty, and is surrounded by mountains and forests. Hey, it's a perfect home for today's cosmopolitan werewolf.

4. It has a brilliant cover. Cover designer Trace Edward Zaber has done it again and come up with a face for my book that's not only beautiful, but compelling. Trace managed to encapsulate exactly what I wanted to get across: that this was a horror story, yes, but at its heart, it's a love story. It's a book that I hope will make a reader's heart race for many reasons.

The Blue Moon Café releases on March 7, 2010 in ebook format, with the paperback version to follow approximately two weeks later. To read the first chapter, e-mail me at jimmyfels@gmail.com and I will send it to you.

What The Blue Moon Cafe is about:

Someone—or something—is killing Seattle’s gay men.

A creature moves through the darkest night, lit only by the full moon, taking them, one by one, from the rain city’s gay gathering areas.

Someone—or something—is falling in love with Thad Matthews.

Against a backdrop of horror and fear, young Thad finds his first true love in the most unlikely of places—a new Italian restaurant called The Blue Moon Café. Sam is everything Thad has ever dreamed of in a man: compassionate, giving, handsome, and with brown eyes Thad feels he could sink into…and he can cook! But as the pair’s love begins to grow, so do the questions and uncertainties, the main one being: Why do Sam’s unexplained disappearances always coincide with the full moon?

Prepare yourself for a unique blend of horror and erotic romance with The Blue Moon Café, written by the author Unzipped magazine called, “the Stephen King of gay horror.” You’re guaranteed an unforgettable reading experience, one that skillfully blends the hottest romance with the most chilling terror…

Exclusive ExcerptThere are roads going nowhere. Huge ramps and posts holding them up that lead toward the sky, as if aliens had built them for take-off strips. They almost glow, grayish, in the shimmering light of the full moon. Surrounding them are trees, grasses, growing wild in a riot around a lily pad-flecked canal. The wind, cold this September night, rustles through the tree tops, making a sound like whispering and sending the weakest of the leaves, harbingers of fall, down to the ground.

It would be pitch and even though he has dark-adapted eyes, it would be difficult to see were it not for the moon tonight, which is glorious, a pale-faced imitator of the sun. Everything, here in the Washington Park Arboretum, is cloaked with a veil of silver. Night has become a kind of day, one that exists in black and white. The pale light and the ability to actually see along the path has brought out many wanderers in the woods. They—all of them men, all of them solitary—make restless circuits of the trails going through the woods and along the canal. They stop here and there, where a bent tree or a copse of bushes provide a kind of shelter, looking for another soul who will elevate them from their loneliness for a few minutes. Some have succeeded—condom wrappers and condoms themselves, used, litter the ground and some even hang from branches.

He also hunts…but not for the same thing. While they search for the warmth of sexual connection, hungry for the taste of cum, he looks for the coldness of destruction and the taste of blood. He lifts his snout to test the cool air and is rewarded with the smell of at least a dozen men, traversing the trails that cut through the woods of the park. He has slipped through the shadows, watching as the men exchange silent signals with one another, couple, then separate, to wander back to the parking lot. Some of them hurry, with their heads hung low, as if ashamed of what they have done. Others, shameless, walk jauntily back to their cars of their homes in the neighborhoods bordering the park, satisfied with their release.

Disgusting.

The creature pads along a trail, waiting for one of the men to break free of the others, to follow a trail perhaps down to the canal’s edge, to separate from the pack. It is the ones who stay by themselves, perhaps the ones too fearful to actually do what they came here for, that he wants. Vulnerable. Alone.
He is quick and sure when he attacks. There will be no screams to alert the others. There won’t even be a scuffle. There will be only death and feasting, silent and sure, gliding in on one of these men, unsuspecting, like a shadow. The element of surprise has always been his trump and his calling card. His stealth and razor sharp fangs will ensure a quick demise, painless for only a second or two, until blood and flesh is rendered and offered up to him like a gift.

He revels in the anticipation of the kill. He will satisfy his own ferocious hunger, in his belly for certain, but also for the elusive taste of justice. These men deserve to have something bad happen to them. Look at them! In a public place, looking to sate their perverted desires, to connect with strangers in a way that should be reserved for private, for time alone with a creature one loves and bears some commitment to…

He is an old-fashioned monster. He feels no remorse for what he is about to do. In its own way, he knows that his hunting and killing is for the common good, eradicating those who foul the world with heedless desire and warped attractions.

He pads along a trail and hops jauntily along the wooden surface of a small bridge, making not a sound. Ahead, one has separated far enough from the pack that the beast thinks he may have a chance, especially if the man is foolish enough to duck into a cluster of foliage which will shields dark couplings from passersby as close as a few feet away. He knows his al fresco meal will be over within seconds. It’s not the length of the meal that defines its quality.

From a few feet away, he pants, licking his chops, and watches the man. He is tall, clad in a pair of tight fitting jeans, boots, and a dark T-shirt, much too lightweight for this chilly night, but perfect for showing off biceps that have been pumped unnaturally large and a chest that spans super-hero width. The monster is certain that such physical dimensions make the man a desirable candidate, a kind of trophy or reward. But his bulging muscles and cocky walk are all for show; he knows there is no strength to back them up. He will be just as easy to bring down as all the rest. And like all the rest, he will not even make a sound.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

So I'm off to New Orleans in a couple of weeks for EPICon 2010 and I'm happy to report that two of my Amber Quill books are finalists for awards. VGL Male Seeks Same is up for Best Contemporary Romance and Dead End Street is up for Best Young Adult Fiction.

I'm really proud to be among the other finalists. See the complete list of finalists here. And I am so looking forward to getting to New Orleans (where I haven't been in more than 10 years) and reconnecting with old friends and peers and making new ones.

Today, I'd like to share with you a little bit about each of the nominated books.

Poor Ethan Schwartz. It seems like he will never find that special someone. At age 42, he’s still alone, his bed still empty, and his 42-inch HDTV overworked. He’s tried the bars and other places where gay men are supposed to find one another, but for Ethan, it never works out. He wonders if it ever will. Should he get a cat?

But all of that is about to change. At work, Ethan hears about a website that promises to deliver more than just the tawdry hook-ups associated with so many other sites. Ethan wants romance, and although he’s always been a little shy about the whole cyber-dating scene, he figures he has nothing to lose.

Well, maybe he does have something to lose: his self-esteem. After he posts his profile, he gets zero responses. But Ethan realizes one thing about the cyberworld that isn’t true in the real one: Online, Ethan can be anyone he wants to be.

And a new persona is born. The new Ethan is handsome (with someone else’s pic) and the sudden recipient of dozens of online come-ons. What Ethan doesn't count on, however, is finding—among the propositions and the flattery—his one true love. Not just a gorgeous man, but one who suits him in almost every way.

How does Ethan turn his budding cyber love into a real one? And can he hang on to his mystery suitor without turning him off with his deception?

EXCERPT

...For years, Ethan had observed the hoopla surrounding the Internet and its supposed ease of getting people together for sex, romance, half price books, and even cut-rate psychotherapy, but never thought he would traverse its well-traveled highways to meet a man. Somehow, it all seemed too cheap and easy, almost tawdry. Ethan wanted to meet a man through a mutual friend, at a dinner party perhaps, where the assembled group (all attractive upwardly mobile professionals and artists) were enjoying paella and whimsical cocktails like sidecars or Tom Collins. Their eyes would meet over the olive tapenade and they would exchange phone numbers while waiting for the host to bring them their coats. Or, even better, they would meet in a bookstore (no, not that kind!) where they would both be reaching for a copy of the latest David Sedaris at the exact same moment and then would laugh and insist that the other take the shelf copy first. Or maybe he would discover his intended as he rode alone on Lake Michigan’s bike trail and his future beloved would help him when he got a flat tire. It was a story they would tell their grandchildren.

“Yeah, right.” Ethan blew out a big sigh and hit the TAB key to take him to the first box needing to be filled in. “That’s not the way it happens these days. These days, guys meet online. Period. Jane Austen would be appalled.”

Filling out the application to be a member of wingpeople.com was not all that different than filling out a job application. Ethan shook his head. That wasn’t true at all! Filling out a job application was much easier. At least a job application didn’t ask you about your most intimate physical dimensions, or if you considered yourself a top or a bottom, or “versatile.” A job application would never ask if you considered yourself to have a swimmer’s build, or if there was “more of you to love.” A job application would never ask if you “partied,” although they might test to see if you did, if they became serious about hiring you. Filling out paperwork for a job would never require you to tell, in great detail, what you were looking for in a potential mate.

But Ethan supposed all this information, all this nosy prying, was for a good purpose, which was to match you up with other like-minded souls. And Ethan actually adored the idea of that. He was not one of these middle-aged men he saw wandering around Halsted Street dressed in head-to-toe Abercrombie and Fitch, hoping to find a “boy” of no more than thirty years or so.

Ethan wanted a companion, someone he could relate to, someone with a bit of a shared history. He wondered if this route could ever deliver such a bird.

He wondered if such a bird even existed, or if it had gone the way of the dodo.

Finally, Ethan got through the laborious screens of questions and was ready to hit “submit.” He was even pleased with the photo of himself he had decided on using, dredged up from some of his event publicity files from his work folder. In the photo, taken just a few months ago, he was shown smiling with the director of the latest offering at the Chicago Shakespeare Theater. He had simply cropped out the grinning, bespectled director and voila, he had himself a halfway-decent headshot. At least the picture was honest and, in its way, flattering. He hoped at least one or two men out there in cyberland would be inclined to agree.

He hit “submit,” wondering as he did if the obvious sexual connotations of the word had occurred to anyone else.

As soon as a “thank you” message popped up, telling Ethan his message was in the queue awaiting approval (which would take eight to twelve hours), sweat began to pop up on his brow. “Good Lord,” he wondered aloud, “what did I just do?”

He thought of the poor folks whose forays into dating sites and social networks like MySpace or Friendster ended up on Dr. Phil, or worse, Judge Judy, and the woe those people experienced when they exposed their more intimate sides to the world. They were idiots, as Judy and Phil would say, with no more sense than God gave a grasshopper. His little adventure could end up coming back to haunt him. What, for example, would Bubbles have to say about his profile once it was approved and active? Would he snicker behind manicured nails and call over the entire office to gape and guffaw at his photo and his predilection for forties noir classics? And that kind of information was the least of his worries—he had divulged to the entire world his sexual likes and dislikes, for cryin’ out loud.

He got up and got a Coke Zero and tried to reassure himself by saying that he was just flattering himself. Everyone was online these days and the truth was no one would really even care about him or his little profile. All he needed to really worry about was that some imagined man out there, reasonably good looking, well-read, and with a quirky sense of humor, would pause long enough at his profile to send him a message...

The old house at the end of a dead-end street is more of a dead end than anyone realizes...

They are five misfit kids who have banded together in their small Ohio River town. Over the years, they had organized various clubs, and now they've formed the Halloween Horror Club. The premise is simple: each week, each teen spins a horrifying tale, and at the end of five weeks, the scariest story wins a prize. The twist: the stories have to be told in the infamous and abandoned Tuttle house, where, fifteen years earlier, nearly an entire family had been murdered in their beds.

The idea of the club seems like a good one, until the kids begin to realize they may not be alone in the Tuttle house, which backs up against the woods. There seems to be someone—or something—watching them. Is it Paul Tuttle, the son who, while still in his teens, disappeared the night his parents and sister were killed? Or is it someone even more sinister?

With each story (each a completed short, original horror tale that stands on its own), the tension mounts...and so does the anger of the house's mysterious inhabitant. He is enraged at having his space violated, and his rage could mean a real dead end for those who dare to invade his home...

EXCERPT

...Marlene turned to Peter. “What do you mean? Some sort of club to go see horror movies? We already do that.” Marlene was the quietest of the group, and they all acknowledged she was the smartest, too.

Peter rolled his eyes. “No, I have something a little more imaginative in mind.” He paused and waited until Roy looked away from the computer monitor. Peter bit his lower lip, then continued. “I was thinking of this club as a limited time thing.” He let his statement hang in the air, hoping he was building an appropriate sense of suspense and danger. He hung back from the group gathered around the computer, hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts.

“Yeah. Like the McPig sandwiches at McDonald’s.” David snorted with laughter at his own joke.

“C’mon, Dave. Let him finish.” Roy spoke up, but his words weren’t very convincing. His high-pitched voice made him sound like a seven-year-old boy, or worse, a girl.

“Thanks,” Peter said. “Anyway, what I was thinking was this. It’s only six weeks until Halloween, right?”

Erin nodded and flung a mass of her dark brown hair over one shoulder. She gave Peter the full attention of her eyes, which were so dark they appeared bottomless. Erin was the prettiest of the group, and what made her especially so was the fact that she had no idea this was the case.

Peter continued. “Well, what we could do is meet officially once a week. At that time, one of us would be responsible for making up a scary story—you know, something really gross or bloody—for that week. Let’s see if we can come up with something more terrifying than any movie, something that would make some of us afraid to turn off the lights at bedtime. When we’re all done, we’ll take a vote, and whoever gets the most votes gets to decide how we’ll spend Halloween.”

“Boring!” David said. “Can we move on to other business, like putting some other music on? This sucks.” David reached out toward the computer, and Marlene slapped his hand away.

Her eyes were bright with interest. “I think the idea has potential.”

“I didn’t tell you guys the best part, though.” Peter’s face warmed with excitement. “We’ll meet at the Tuttle house each week. That’s where we’ll tell our stories.” Peter’s smile died as he surveyed the reaction on his friends’ faces.

The group got quiet. Even the music seemed to become softer, as if an unseen hand, pale, veiny, and covered with sores, was turning down the sound.

“The Tuttle house?” Erin whispered, her dark eyes alive with fear.

“Isn’t that where all those murders happened? That family?” Roy’s voice cracked.

“Supposedly,” David spoke up. “That was a long time ago, before any of us were even born. I think it’s just a rotting house up on the hill. Nothing to be scared of.”

“Who’s going to catch us?” Marlene spoke up. “The house is at the end of a dead-end road. There aren’t even any neighbors until you get to the Washington’s, and they’re at least a football field or two away. If we’re quiet, I don’t think anyone would pay any attention. It’s just an empty, old house, really.”

Peter looked around at them all. “‘An empty old house’? Maybe. That’s part of why I want us to meet there. To see just how empty it is. I’ve heard things, lots of things about the Tuttle house. I know you guys have, too.” His gaze met Erin’s, whose unblemished and perfect skin had gone pale. “It may not be as empty as some people’d like to think.” He grinned. “Or hope...”

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Do you "act out" the love scenes in your books? Is the sex in your books based on your real experiences? Is it hard to write love scenes?

Believe it or not, these are some of the most common things I’m asked when people find out I write romances. The questions mostly come from relatives or others who are trying to get under my skin.

When it first happened, I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t want to be completely rude, but after they probed and pestered me, snickering to themselves, I decided to answer the questions. Being a creative writer, I came up with the following:

"No, I don’t act out the love scenes. Do you think mystery writers practice killing people for their books?"

"Nope, sorry. I made up all that sex. In fact, I even made up those characters…that’s what makes it fiction. (And no, the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park weren’t real either!)

"Love scenes aren’t hard to write. I just spy on my characters and write down what they do."

The short answers seem to work just fine. I don’t think the hecklers would sit still and listen long enough to hear some of the real answers.

Love scenes (or sex scenes, or whatever you want to call them) are fun to write. You get to let the characters run wild, experiment, and do whatever comes natural (pardon the pun). Writing love scenes is always a process of discovery. I base the intensity and actions in the scene on the particular story, plot, and characters. What’s going on in the bedroom (or study, or bathtub, or…wherever) has to flow naturally into the story and match the characters’ personalities.

Certain characters in my books (like Prince Allan from The Pauper Prince) are up (literally!) for anything, while other characters (Lauren, from The Sexy Stranger) are more conservative.
There are a lot of intense sexual scenes in my book, A Midsummer Night’s Delights, as Julian and Annabelle discover their hidden desires and become open to experimentation - but those scenes allow them to grow and learn about themselves over the course of the story. And, yes, it is a story. So here’s a short excerpt. Enjoy!

EXCERPT "Whose bedroom is this?" Julian asked. Like his own bedchamber, the room was elaborately decorated and had an enormous four-poster bed along one wall.

"Shh, keep your voice low." Vincent removed a painting from the far wall. He tossed the painting on the bed and gestured for him to come closer.

He was about to ask why they were here when he heard a woman moan.

"Oh, yes! Go deeper," she muttered.

His skin prickled. Was a woman having intimate relations in the next room? Vincent had his face pressed against the wall and was watching from a hole cut into the plaster. Had he no shame? Did he spy on all his guests in their private moments?

He crossed the room, curious, yet offended. "You shouldn’t watch--"

"Shh. Don’t be a prude. Take a look for yourself," Vincent replied, moving aside so he could look.

He peered through the small hole and saw a brightly-lit bedchamber. A naked, dark-haired woman was kneeling over another figure on the bed, groaning. He licked his lips at the sight of her tight, pale buttocks. Whoever she was, she was obviously enjoying herself.

"Yes…ooh! It’s so big!" After watching for another minute, he pulled away and frowned at Vincent. "It’s not right to peek in on people. That could be someone’s wife."

"It is. Mine. That’s Sabrina."

His heart skipped a beat. "Don’t you care that your wife is in there with another man?"

Vincent shook his head. "She’s not. She’s in there with a woman. Annabelle."

"What?" He pressed his eye to the peephole again. Sabrina had turned on the bed and now lay on her side. He saw her hand moving between another woman’s parted legs. He scowled. That woman couldn’t be Annabelle. Her muff was completely shaved!

He readjusted his position to get a better view. He heard a giggle, then saw a flash of light brown hair. A second later, Annabelle leaned forward and kissed Sabrina on the mouth. His mind reeled as he stared at the two women.

"Ohh, good, it feels so good. Don’t stop. I like it," Annabelle muttered, arching her buttocks off the mattress.

His mouth went dry and he turned away from the wall. "Are they…"

"Screwing? Yes. And from the sound of it, they’re enjoying themselves." He pulled the flask from his pocket and opened it. "You look like you need another drink."

Julian took the flask and swallowed down the liquor in four gulps. How could his innocent Annabelle be…naked? Shaved? Frolicking with another woman? Dear God, she was his wife and he’d never seen her completely naked himself!

"How…how did this happen?" he croaked out.

"It seems your delicate, repressed wife has learned to release her pent-up desires…with a little help, of course." Vincent grinned as Annabelle whimpered in delight. "Someone has to fuck her. Why should she wait for you when my wife can screw her?"

"But…how? They’re women, and--"

"Take a look," Vincent said. "You might learn something."

He returned to the peephole and gasped at the sight before him. Dear Lord, Vincent was right! Sabrina was thrusting a phallus in and out of Annabelle as she squirmed on the bed. Her cries of rapture echoed in his mind…

Kelli Wilkins has published several erotic romances with Amber Quill Press and is working on a steamy sequel to A Midsummer Night’s Delights. In addition to her romances, Kelli has also published horror short stories and four non-fiction books. To learn more about Kelli and her writings, visit her website.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Aren't you curious about what take gay erotic romance author Lynn Lorenz has on the classic Breakfast at Tiffany's? I am...and I can't wait until its Valentine's Day release. Hmmm...release, Valentine's Day...the two could go hand in hand (if you're lucky).

Anyway...Lynn shares a synopsis and excerpt right here:

SYNOPSISScott lives in a homeless shelter and Tony is squatting in an abandoned house. Fate and fortune bring them together in a dark alley during a robbery. Tony rescues the younger man from being beaten, but on the edge of desepration himself, he steals Scott's money. Ashamed of his actions, Tony decides to return the cash. Scott sees a kindred soul in the man who saved him, then robbed him. Both are seeking what they’ve lost, love, pride, and family. Together, they decide to create a life together in a city defeated but not destroyed.

EXCERPT

Scott trotted down the steps of the homeless shelter, pulled the collar of his threadbare windbreaker up, and headed down St. Joseph Street to Magazine Street. At four in the morning, the street was deserted; all the action would be over on Canal Street, just bordering the French Quarter. His head swiveled back and forth, checking in the shadows of the buildings for signs of life.

Even though he didn’t have more than five dollars on him, he knew there were addicts who would try to take it from you, beat you for it, leave you bleeding, and hurt, just to get their next fix.

As he turned the corner onto Magazine Street and made his way toward the Quarter, he relaxed. The closer he got to it, the better he felt. In the Quarter, with its around the clock nightlife, bars, restaurants and tourists, he’d be safe, or at least safer than here in the deserted business district where the shelter he lived at was located. He hated being there, but the only other place to live would be on the streets. He’d tried that and he’d been pushed against a concrete pillar, robbed, and raped.

The shelter might smell and the food sucked, but none of the other men bothered him there. None of them assumed they could take his ass whenever they felt like it. Like him, all these men only wanted to be left alone, to lie on a warm cot with a blanket, and to sleep in safety.

Up ahead, the traffic light on the corner of Canal and Magazine shone like a beacon in the darkness. His shoulders eased from riding his ears.

Only three blocks to go.

***

Tony stood in the shadows of the alley between the two buildings and watched the skinny white kid walk down the street. Head down, jacket zipped up to his chin and collar up against the dampness of the early morning, the guy made his way down the street, in and out of the halos cast from streetlights placed just too far apart to make the illumination continuous.

In and out of pockets of darkness. Coming closer. Fading to dark. Closer. Fading.

Inhaling, Tony pulled back farther into his hiding spot. His stomach rumbled. Fuck, he hadn’t had a thing to eat in two days and if he didn’t get some cash soon, he’d have to go back to selling his ass on the street. Jobs for people like him were few and far between.

And he’d already promised the memory of his grandmother, embodied in her silver cross around his neck, that he’d never do that again. And no selling drugs. Uh-huh. He was clean and he was gonna stay that way.

Running out of choices, he’d turned to thieving. Grandmama would forgive him that, Tony was sure of it. Which is why he now found himself on the outskirts of the Quarter, looking for someone stupid enough to be walking around down here.

Like this fool kid.

He had to be about eighteen, maybe twenty, but damn, the boy was skinny. Hair so black it looked blue in the lamplights, skin so white it nearly glowed. Skin so white, that next to Tony’s ebony skin, the contrast between them would burn his eyes.

Somewhere a car horn blared and the kid’s head snapped up.

Shit, his eyes were pale too. Almost without color. For a moment, he stared into the spot where Tony hid, but his steps never faltered. Then he dropped his head, dug his hands deeper into the jacket’s pockets, and kept going.

Booking for the Quarter.

Maybe one of those rent boys on his way to earn a little cash in the clubs.

Maybe he had a little cash on him right now.

Maybe if Tony moved fast, when the kid passed him, he could just reach out, grab him, and drag him into the alley. Tony easily had size and muscles over him. It’d be no problem.

Tony held his breath.

The kid passed him.

The scent of soap and something else filled Tony’s nose, stirring a memory from long ago deep inside him. When he had a home, a momma who gave a shit, and two little brothers and a baby sister to care about.

Everything he’d lost in Katrina.

Tony struggled with the wave of grief washing over him, making his knees buckle and his gut ache even harder.

The guy continued on down the block.

***

A soft sniff broke the silence.

Scott swallowed and his ears pricked up. It had come from behind him, he was sure of it. He pulled his hands out of his jacket, fisted them, ready, just in case. As he strained to hear any sound other than his own footfalls, he never saw the hand reaching out from the alley he’d passed, grabbing him by the neck, and yanking him to the side.

He cried out, his own fists flying blindly, but another harder, bigger fist smashed into the side of his head, shooting pain and a warning to shut the fuck up or he’d get worse.

Strong hands cupped under his armpits, dragged him into the darkness of a narrow space between buildings, and dumped him like a bag of garbage on the cold damp concrete.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Thanks to the good taste of the folks at LoveRomances Cafe I have been nominated as the Best GBLT Author 2009. I'm very flattered by the nomination and honored to be in the incredible company of the other authors who made the nominated list.

If you're of the mind I deserve to win, why, thank you very much. I urge you to make your opinion known before the deadline of February 23.

To vote, simply e-mail dawn_roberto@yahoo.com with "LRC's "BEST OF 2009" Awards" in the subject line. If this is not in the subject it will not be counted. You are to vote from the nominee list on your pick. The list will be up in our loop files under "LRC Best of award nominees 2009". Voting rules are here. You’ll need to be logged into the LRC loop to read this message. Any entries received after the deadline will NOT be counted and automatically deleted.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Since his discovery as a child star by a big Hollywood studio, Holland Faust has known he has no value beyond his pretty face. When a crazed fan with a knife ended his acting career, he withdrew to a secluded island off the coast of Maine. There he remains locked away, his solitary existence lightened only by his dog, his garden, and the rare sea glass washed up on shore, communicating only with his two estate keepers and his agent. Without his legendary face, what does he have to offer anyone? Especially someone as vital and beautiful as Ruby Keagan. The young man mistakenly hired as his personal assistant for the summer is the last thing Holland's fragile self-image needs.

Ruby never really thought about his teenage crush on Holland Faust. The poster on his wall had become nothing more than a memory until Ruby took a summer internship for the Faust Charitable Foundation. Hol far exceeds those youthful daydreams; a sensitive, caring man who deserves so much more than his lonely existence. Now if Ruby can just get Hol to realize he doesn't need to hide any longer.

EXCERPT

Oh my God. What have I done? The heat of Ruby’s smile washed over Holland, its glory blinding him for an instant. From six inches away, the combination of that smile and those eyes ripped Holland’s cognitive functions away.

This! This was why he didn’t have male assistants. He’d not the least wish to become the sort of user this unbelievably appealing creature had just accused him of being. The women would never tempt him. But Ruby...dear lord. Pure temptation. Hol managed to pull back before he said or did something to show how very much he wanted to kiss that smiling mouth.

“Your office and quarters are downstairs.” There, that sounded reasonable and not half as shaky as his knees felt.

“Fair enough.” Ruby stood, the movement shifting the robe just enough to reveal a glimpse of smooth, well-muscled chest before the younger man tightened the belt again. “Hope you don’t mind if I keep this a little longer...and showing me where the dryer is, for my clothes?”

“There’s a laundry off the kitchen.” Even now, Ruby seemed far too close. “I’ll go down with the cart and get your luggage so you’ll have fresh clothes.” And he was not thinking of following the fine column of Ruby’s throat down and pressing his lips to the sweet hollow just above the creamy velvet opening of his robe.

Pure electric shock ran up Holland’s arm the instant their hands touched. Ruby’s firm handshake matched his straightforward manner. And his upbringing. Holland knew a hill man didn’t offer his hand unless he meant it. His father had told him so many times. “I hope I don’t, Mr. Keagan.” He could hardly say he already did so. He moved to show his visitor out of the bedroom. And further from temptation.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Tales from the Underground, my new collection of erotic fiction and non-fiction from MLR Press, is getting close to coming out...fingers crossed for March, but for sure in April. Check out the wonderful cover from artist Deana Jamroz.

FROM THE BACK COVER

I wanted to write about people who were not just out, but out there, people who lived their sexual lives in ways most of us could only imagine…and for whom the flavor vanilla had absolutely no appeal. I interviewed porn stars, prostitutes, self-proclaimed sex pigs, and delved into bizarre sexual practices. It was eye-opening, arousing, and a lot of fun (but never, never good clean fun). I also include here my favorite dirty stories. They all explore a side of life that exists not in the twilight zone, but in my favorite destination…the sexual underground.

EXCLUSIVE EXCERPTFill it to the Rim…Ask your mother, or any of your straight friends, to use the word “rim” in a sentence as a verb and they may be hard pressed to come up with a response. Oh sure, Mom might say, “Grandma’s lovely mixing bowl was rimmed in fleur-de-lis.” But for the most part, your straight friends probably think of the word rim as a noun.But ask your gay brethren and you’ll come up with an entirely different response. The rim of their favorite coffee cup is probably the last thing to come to their filthy little minds when that particular three-letter word arises in conversation. “Rimming” or “tossing a salad” are just a couple of metaphors for the act known less delicately as “eating butt” or for those of a more clinical semantic bent, analingus.But how safe is putting your tongue where the sun don’t shine? Once again, I will reiterate my claim, before I go any further, that I am not a doctor, nor have I ever even played one on TV, so what I say here should not be construed as medical advice. It’s only the results of my own feeble research into the topic that I present here, so take it with a grain of salt…or a shot of penicillin…or a hepatitis vaccination. Which brings me to my first point: hepatitis. Other than winding up with a shit-eating grin, your biggest risk when it comes to rimming is contracting hepatitis, A or B, maybe even C. Face it, butt munchers, the easiest way to get hepatitis is through fecal matter and you’re bound to come into contact with some if you go sticking your nose (and your mouth) in a loved one’s butthole, however tight, pink, hairy or beautiful that little rosebud may be. The good news here is that you can allay many of your worries by visiting your doctor and getting yourself vaccinated against the dreaded virus(es). Then you can munch away with abandon, bearing in mind that you have not been vaccinated against other nasty little critters you could pick up this way, like parasites. As with most any gestures of affection, you must weigh the risks and benefits of any such display and decide what is right for you. Keeping your nose out of others’ business is your decision, as an educated consumer. You may be wondering about that old bugaboo we hear so much about these days: HIV. From what I’ve learned, rimming is not all that likely to give you the dreaded virus, provided you have a healthy mouth (no cuts, sores, blisters, icky gums, etc.) and he has a clean ass free from any sores, rips or cuts. We won’t even get into felching here. I guess when it comes to tossing a salad, cleaning the kitchen, or whatever fanciful term you choose to dress up your taste for butt with, the key words are common sense and caution.So, dear ones, I close with two clichés: bottoms up! And bon appetit!

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Bristlecone Pine Press and author Rick R. Reed are pleased to announce the Kindle publication of his thriller, Deadly Vision.

(The cover was designed by the very talented Alex Beecroft.)

As a special promotion, get a free copy of the award-winning, critically-praised The Picture of Dorian Gray update, A Face Without A Heart (also published by Bristlecone)! Simply be one of the first 20 people to purchase Deadly Vision today. Send an email with proof of purchase to publisher@bcpinepress.com and they will get the book right out to you. The twenty copies are going fast, so act quickly! When you e-mail, be sure to specify what format you want: HTML, PDF, epub, or prc.

SYNOPSIS:

What If You Suddenly Became Psychic and Could Stop Two Cold-Blooded Killers?

What if...No One Believed You?

Small-town single mom Cass D'Angelo's life changes when a thunderstorm sweeps into her small Ohio River town. Cass must venture out in it to hunt for her son, seven-year-old Max. Lightning strikes a tree near her and a branch to the head knocks her unconscious. When Cass awakens a couple days later, she sees into the deepest secrets of those around her. Worse, some teenage girls have gone missing, and Cass sees their grisly fates. The discovery opens the door to a whole new life. The police are suspicious. The press wants to make her a celebrity. And the killers are desperate to know how she found their carefully concealed grave. Cass finds an ally in Dani Westwood, a local reporter. The two women begin to probe into the disappearances/murders and start to forge a romance. When Cass's little boy, Max, disappears, Cass must race against the clock to find him...before it's too late.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Ever been to Queer Dimensions? No, it's not the Twilight Zone. Author Fiona Glass gives us a tour.

Synopsis:

Can love follow a man through time? Madoc, a dock-worker who's doubly cursed as 'non Caste' and gay, meets Josh, a man he comes to realize is visiting from the future. What he doesn't realize is that he'll spend much of his life following Josh through time, or that Josh's visit will be the catalyst for him to change his unfair world.

'The Visitor', a poignant time-travel romance, is available in 'Queer Dimensions', a collection of seventeen beautiful sci-fi stories published by QueeredFiction. It's available in both print and electronic versions and you can find all the purchase details at their website.

Excerpt:

The man had come off the latest travel-ship, but whether he was from the past or the future Madoc was too lowly to be told. The first he knew of it was when the man appeared on the docks, which was unusual enough in itself. Travellers were bustled through the quayside as quickly and painlessly as possible, not left to wander the wet foul-smelling slabs by themselves - but this man had clearly lost his way.

In spite of the travelling clothes he was wearing he had the pallid skin and dark eyes of a caste member and Madoc was wary about approaching him. Non-castes didn't speak to castes without an invitation, or a bloody good reason to do so. The man would no doubt find his own way without Madoc's very limited help. But the man had other ideas. Approaching the spot where Madoc stood ticking off boxes on his latest list, he had his mouth open to say something - to ask for directions, perhaps, or yell at Madoc for not moving out of the way. Whatever it was, Madoc never knew, because at the last minute the man tripped over an unseen box on the quay and swooped arse-over-elbow into the greasy waters below.

Madoc didn't even stop to think. That was a caste member floundering down there, and he didn't want the death laid at his door. Kicking off his boots and casting his manifest aside he leapt into the sea in his turn, paddling to where the man lay and holding his head aloft until help arrived.

The man was grateful, he'd give him that. Standing dripping on the dock he ignored the other offers of help to seek Madoc out and even shake his hand. "My name's Josh," he said, wiping weed off his face with a rueful grin. "And I'm very grateful to you for coming to the rescue - I can swim but that water's very cold."

"It's nothing," said Madoc with a shrug. And then, because he'd fallen for the man's smile, he cast danger to the winds. "Would you like to come back to my place to dry off? It's not far, just over there by the dock gate."

"Thanks, that would be good," said Josh. "But I can't stay long. I'm just visiting, you see."

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

I always appreciate a good werewolf story. And Margaret Carter's Allure of the Beast is a great addition to the genre. Below, the author shares a synopsis and excerpt.

SYNOPSIS
When werewolf Erin Balfour learns that her father has been murdered by his pack’s new alpha male, the pack’s welfare demands that she embrace the beast heritage she never wanted. She must pose as the mate of lone wolf Raoul, her father’s protégé, and deal with the magnetic allure between them. If she wants Raoul for her true mate, must she also embrace her role as heir to the alpha bloodline?

EXCERPT

Green eyes glinted among the trees. From the edge of the woods, Raoul watched the beast lurking in the shadows. His animal vision had no trouble spotting the auburn she-wolf by the light of the half-full moon. Having tracked her many times before, he knew her routine. She regularly visited this park near her home, where the patch of tame forest gave her space to run. She believed she'd found a safe way to live with her double nature. He hated knowing he'd have to shatter that illusion.

When she turned her head in his direction, he froze. He watched her glance from side to side and sniff the air. Did she sense his nearness? In all the times he'd shadowed her, in both her wolf and woman forms, he'd never confronted her face-to-face. Tonight he would have to take that step. He quivered with eagerness for that meeting.

He abandoned caution and sprinted toward the she-wolf. As he had feared, she broke into a run as soon as she sighted him. His longer legs closed the distance in seconds. With a torturous wrench, he forced his body into human form.

The female halted, clearly stunned by his change.

"Erin, wait!" he called.

She paused, tremulous with uncertainty, her lips curled in a silent snarl.

He raised his hands, palms out. "Don't run from me. I know what you are."

A ridge of hair stood up along her spine. His nostrils flared at her clean, wild scent, a blend of curiosity and fear, flavored with hints of citrus and cinnamon. He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. "I'm a friend of your father."

Now she snarled aloud. He couldn't blame her if she bristled at any mention of the man who'd sired her.

Another pace brought Raoul within arm's reach of her. He stretched out a hand. Saliva gleamed on her bared fangs. Though he longed to touch her and rub her thick fur, he decided indulging that desire wouldn't be worth the risk of her sinking those teeth into his flesh. He lowered his arm to his side. The touching he craved would have to come later, if at all.

"I have bad news. Your father is dead."

* * * *

Erin silently raged at the bad luck that had let the strange wolf catch her off guard. The breeze had blown his oddly familiar scent away from her until the last second. Even in a human body, he smelled like no other man she'd ever met. Leaf-loam, salt, and spices that reminded her of hot mulled cider, seasoned with a tang of animal musk. To her annoyance, she wanted to inhale deeper and savor that scent. Unwelcome passion sizzled in her veins. On top of that disturbingly erotic excitement, a turbulent mix of anger and fear made her lightheaded.

So he knew her father. If she'd had the ability to speak at that moment, she'd have retorted, "Why should I care?"

If this man who towered over her on his long legs was her father's friend, that fact didn't give her any reason to trust him. Just the opposite, if anything. Too bad he smelled delicious enough to lick like an ice-cream cone and looked equally intriguing. Apparently in his thirties, he had curly, black hair trimmed to just below his ears. His thick eyebrows, dark and diabolically slanted, met over the bridge of his nose, though a little thinner there. She'd never met anyone else who shared that oddity with her.

When he spoke again, she struggled to listen more closely. His accent hinted at a New England origin. "I have bad news. Your father is dead."

She growled, a sound that segued into a whine before she could swallow it. She hardly knew the man who'd left her mother right after Erin's birth. Yet a lump of sadness congealed in her chest. Now she'd never have another chance to rage at him and demand why he'd left her with so little guidance in handling her wild nature. Dead? How?

"I've got a lot to tell you, and this isn't the place. Meet me at your house as soon as you can get there."

She bristled at the casual order. He knew where she lived?

As if he guessed her unspoken question, he said, "Don't worry, I know where it is."

Before he finished answering, she caught on. He was the wolf whose baying she'd heard while she prowled by night, whose scent had drifted to her on the wind. How long had he been stalking her?

His lean body loomed over her, poised as if to pounce. She couldn't stop her eyes from wandering down the front of his torso to his partial erection. Torn between indignation and alarm, she turned and raced toward home.

Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at www.rickrreed.com or www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.

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Real Men. True Love.

I draw inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although I dabble in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, my attention always returns to the power of love. I'm addicted to books--I've written and had published more than 35 novels and counting, some of which have won awards and made it to the top of the Amazon bestseller charts. I'm forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary called me: "A writer that doesn't disappoint…" I live in Palm Springs, CA with my beloved husband who tries, mostly successfully, to keep me out of trouble. When I'm not writing, I'm cooking, reading, running, or traveling.

Visit (and please follow) my Amazon author page to see all the books I have waiting for you to dive into!